


Kenderella: A Retelling

by corrupted_quiet



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cinderella Elements, Conspiracy, Crochet, Crossdressing, Death Threats, Dresses, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Fairy Godparents, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Parody, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Forced Crossdressing, Glass Slippers (Cinderella), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magic, Male Cinderella, Princes & Princesses, Princess Kenny - Freeform, Rats & Mice, Romance, Royalty, Servants, Sewing, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2018-11-30 17:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11468124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: Kenny has been a servant in House Cartman most of his life, suffering countless abuses from his tyrannical master. While he manages to get by, with the help of fellow servants Wendy and Bebe, handicap cat Jimmy, and helpful mice Craig, Tweek, and Clyde, he hasn't believed in fairy tales in a long, long time. But when he overhears his master plotting to use the ball thrown for Prince Kyle to his own gain, Kenny knows he has to do something. Luckily for him, there's a little fairy magic working in his favour, and who knows? Maybe Kenny will find a happily ever after.A Cinderella spoof, starring the fairest in the land: Princess Kenderella.





	1. Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time—that’s how most of these stories start, right? They all start once upon a time— _what_ time, _some_ time—in some faraway land, some realm of myth and magic, populated with fantastical creatures from oral legend, made up of dreams from children’s bedtime stories. And they all start just about the same, with those simple words: _once upon a time._

Well, once upon a time, a little family dwelt in a modest hovel, nestled in the corner of a grand kingdom. Their meagre shanty sat quivering in the long shadows cast by the lords’ manor houses, trembling beneath the line of poverty, cowering before the towering castle etched into the mountain range. It was in this small home that two parents raised three children, although _raised_ may not be the proper term. While the mother begot two sons and a daughter for her husband, he still spent most of his time—and the family’s coin—at the local pub, shirking his role as a father and adopting the drink. Eventually, the mother, too, succumbed, to those treacherous temptations, thorns that barb the lives of the poor and the destitute. She frequented apothecaries, searching for a way to cope, but forfeited her motherly duties in the process. And in that time, once upon, the family’s livelihood was stolen, by the pharmacists and the barkeeps, funds funnelled into their vices, while the little ones endured. They endured and they hoped, hoped to have a family, like the others in the village, like the fairy tale dreams.

They hoped, and hoped, and hoped, as the days passed them by. Father left sober, returned in drunken stupor. Mother collected prescriptions, swallowed them all at once. The absences lengthened, for the both them, until one day their mother left the house, and never again crossed their threshold. She almost made it to the main road, used by all the carts and carriages, when her addiction got the best of her. The red in her cheeks drained as the strength left her muscles, fainting in a hole dug by a wild dog. It took four days, for her husband to notice, notice his children sobbing and crying for their missing mother. He only noticed because, that morning, a villager visited the house, told them about the body, how it—what remained of it—resembled his wife. That was when the father faced an ultimatum, to be a parent or a drunkard, to choose his children or the alehouse.

With his decision, he shattered their hope, as the father sold his children off, to be forever servants in the homes of the nobles he so despised. He traded their lives for gold, to spend drowning himself in booze, bemoaning his sorrows in hopes of a pity pint. Soon enough, he joined his wife, and not a soul showed an inkling of sympathy, not even the tapper.

As for the children, well, they wouldn’t be a family much longer, each contracted to a different house. The eldest, Kevin, was sent to House Stoley, and the youngest, Karen, became a charge of House Black. And the middle child, _Kenny_ …

He went to House Cartman.

Now, House Cartman was a fairly new development. Rumours spread, years ago, of a Lord Tenorman fathering a bastard with a common brothel whore, and for once the winds carried truth. A bastard was born, growing up outside the luxuries of nobility, but only for a while. Soon, tragedy struck House Tenorman, the Lord and Lady cannibalised by their legitimate son, who claimed some kind of conspiracy, saying he was tricked into feasting on his parents’ flesh. Tricked by whom, no official ever found out—though putting an ear to the rumours might have given a clue—instead the boy deemed insane and the role of heir transferred. Fortune passed to Eric, along with new title and land, founding a new name he forged all on his own.

Kenny was Eric’s first personal servant, coming into the household a young boy. He doubled as a playmate for the young master, and a labourer for all menial chores. Of course, as he quickly found, Eric wasn’t good with others, especially those he considered below him. If Kenny deviated from his word, even slightly, he’d form some new mess and order Kenny clean it up. He ensured that his days were filled with long hours of work, with a mop or a broom, a bucket or a brush, in a heap of hay or in a bed of cinders.

Others came, as the Estate grew, as the boys grew. Cartman swindled his tenants, purchasing daughters from the ones struggling on his gravelly soil. He got Wendy to run his kitchen, and Bebe to care for his wardrobe. When he needed a steward, rather than offer Kenny a promotion, he sought someone _unquestioning_ , taking a son from a lesser known house. Butters knew little of household affairs, but his unwavering obedience made up for the immense lack in experience. For as far as Eric Cartman cared, a house was not for family but fame, and the only useful servant was one who listened to the master, who stayed quiet and hard at work.

Once upon a time, Kenny listened to fairy tales. When he was young, he always listened to the stories people told, about dashing knights and swooning princesses, about villains defeated and heroes getting their happily ever after. He used to repeat those stories to Karen before bed, to help her stave off the nightmares of goblins and ghosts. Once upon a time, a part of him believed— _really_ believed—that some of those stories actually turned out to be true.

At age eight, his life was sold to the Cartman Estate, when he was no older than the master he served. And now, now Kenny’s twenty-two, fourteen years in his service, no longer counting years to freedom, only bitterly wondering years to death. So much happened once upon a time, so much he had no control over, so much more cannot undo. _Once upon a time_ may sound nice, but it’s never done him any good, never brought anything but ephemeral sweetness, long-lasting bitterness.

Once upon a time, Kenny used to go to his window, in the attic of the Cartman Manor, and look off into the distance, to the castle on the horizon. Once upon a time, he dreamt that his life would get better, that he’d live just like those people in the tall stone towers. Once upon a time, he thought his story started off with that goddamn stupid phrase.

Come on, who’s _dumb_ enough to think there’s some Fairy God-Fucker out there watching over _him_ , right?


	2. Just a Piece of Furniture

The manor house has forty-three rooms, spanned over three towering storeys, forty-three rooms that need constant attention, forty-three rooms Kenny must clean. As a young boy, thrusted a brush and bucket, the task appeared daunting, told to keep the household _immaculate_ , worthy of those important enough to own such a lofty abode. It was made very clear, upon arriving, that this place was not his home, would _never_ be his home, that he was no more important than dining room chair, than a marbled bannister, than a lump of coal in the grand fireplace. He understood, even then, that he would never enjoy such comfort or luxury, that he was a servant with a duty, a serf under another’s ownership. Perhaps that made things easier, kneeling on the floor to scrub away grime, standing atop stools to dust high shelves. Kenny is just a piece of furniture, with nothing of his own.

The afternoon sun cascades through pristine glass, light spilling out over travertine tiles, flooding the halls with springtime’s blinding luminance. Rich velvet curtains ornate frames, the red hue shared by the long carpet running down the corridor. He walks down the avenue of doors, all closed and locked, hiding rooms that sit disregarded and fallow. Tomorrow, though, Kenny will awaken at the first ray of sunlight, with a brand-new set of chores. He’ll walk to this hallway, and find all rooms unlocked, because Cartman will say they require his _immediate_ attention, despite ignoring them in previous days’ lists. So, Kenny will dust off the literary volumes Cartman has never once read, polish the piano keys he’s never once played, and shine the stately armour he’s never once worn. He’ll switch the sheets in of the guest rooms’ soft and supple beds, then retire to the attic where he’ll sleep beneath the eaves. But he won’t feel resentful, because he’ll be too goddamn _tired_ to feel much of anything at all. The fire inside dimmed years ago, when Kenny realised that he would never be able to afford his own freedom, that he would never have a home like when he was a child, that he would never amount to more than the labour he provides.

Kenny’s gaze glides along the moulding, absently checking for any high cobwebs or minor cracks, any imperfections he will need to cover up. Forty-three rooms is an awful lot of space, an awful lot for him to manage. Cleanliness is Kenny’s jurisdiction, and Kenny’s _alone_. The others have their jobs, with more limited scopes and contained requirements. Cartman, of course, does whatever it is lords do, which, as far as Kenny can tell, is sit around thinking of ways to make people miserable. Butters, as his steward, does anything his master does _not_ want to do, like actually _managing_ the estate, obeying orders like the dog, too naïve to realise that’s how Cartman sees him. Wendy works as a cook, Bebe as a chambermaid, and while neither of them are thrilled with their position, they know Kenny shoulders the brunt of the work, rising at the crack of dawn, slumbering in the night’s wee hours. Fortunately, the gruelling conditions have not hardened the girls’ hearts, sympathising with him and helping when they can, contributions furtive and discreet.

Really, Kenny wishes they would stop risking themselves, value their own lives before his. Cartman can do nothing more to him, nothing meaningful anyway, but Wendy and Bebe have _families_ , parents tethered to this estate as lowly farmers, all too vulnerable to vindictive taxation. If Wendy gets caught replacing Kenny’s water, or Bebe is seen changing his rags, Cartman will extort all his tenants, push them to the brink of starvation out of petty spite. Kenny asks them to stop, that he can handle everything, but the two are as stubborn as they are caring, simply wishing there was more they could do. _Escape_ , Kenny tells them, escape this dreaded place, as soon as they can, without looking back. After all, the two of them have that option, through the holy route of marriage, while Kenny does not. He never will.

_Squeak! Squeak!_

_Squeak-Squeak!_

_SQUEE—EAK!_

His ears perk, catching the quick conversation of a few chatty rodents. All houses of this size have their fair share of problems, but few suffer from this severe decay of disuse. While Cartman claims the vast emptiness is an extension of his wealth, his home is as hollow as the title he stole. This manor is loneliness manifested, plagued by a dilapidating sickness that infects all who toil within. Perhaps madness is a symptom, because when Kenny wanders from his path, a smile forms on his face. Gathered at clawed feet of a candelabra, he spies a trio of rats, one dark brown, one sandy white, and one spotted black. Clyde, Tweek, and Craig live between the walls, forging for food and scurrying about, fearing most humans on account of their violence. When Kenny first met them on his rounds, he had a different response, scooping them up in his bucket and carrying them up to his room, where he told them they’d be safe. Perhaps they feel indebted to him, and that’s why every night they take refuge in the garret with him, or perhaps they just feel bad for him, knowing Kenny must be desperate to talk to common vermin. Either way, they are his _friends_ , and they shouldn’t be milling about in the open so recklessly.

“Hey guys,” Kenny speaks in a low whisper, to keep his voice from echoing down the corridor. He still startles the three, all tensing up, freezing for a moment. Kenny kneels down, hunches over them, and Craig looks up, relaxes. Clyde gives Kenny a glance, then wags his tail, swishing along the tile. Tweek glances around, nose twitching, before noticing Kenny, then reluctantly calms down. Kenny extends a hand, lets them approach and sniff, tickling his palm with their whiskers, “Whatcha doin’ out here?”

Tweek starts chittering, but Kenny can’t understand. He doesn’t comprehend the language of his trusted companions, doesn’t know what they mean when they cheep and trill. He can gather their moods from their behaviours or figure their feelings from their reactions. Why, he’s even gleaned their personalities—Craig is aloof and acutely observant, Tweek is lively and quite anxious, Clyde is sensitive and a bit dim—defined by their traits, so Kenny might ascribe them words, pretend he knows what they’re saying. In this case, Kenny imagines him saying something like, “We got bored hanging around downstairs, figured we’d change things up.”

“Yeah,” Clyde chirps, tuft of brown waving as he nods his head, “And Jimmy’s asleep so we can’t bother him.”

“Well Jimmy’s a _cat_ ,” Kenny says, drawing back his hand. While Cartman has a personal pet, Mr Kitty, he purchased a barn cat to prevent the likes of Craig, Tweek and Clyde from roaming the manor. The kitten he got was crippled, with a stammering meow and back legs that dragged as he tried to walk. Cartman considered leaving him to die, but the others intervened. Kenny fashioned some braces from spare lumber, Bebe sewed a harness to keep them in place, and Wendy lobbied for Jimmy to be the pantry’s live-in guard. For whatever reason—uncharacteristic generosity or lack of investment—Cartman allowed Jimmy to stay, despite being terrible at catching mice.

“Stop putting words in our mouths, _dickhead_ ,” Craig squeaks furiously, sitting up on his hind, “It’s not our fault you don’t have any other friends.”

“Y’know, I’m just helping you out,” Kenny frowns. He wonders why he puts up with being backtalked by a rat, then remembers _he’s_ the one assigning him a voice in the first place, “You gotta go hide. It’s dangerous up here for lil’ guys like you.”

“What? Scared _Butters_ will find us and tattle?” Clyde mocks him, squeal mimicking a laugh.

“Or Cartman finds you and stabs you to death ‘cause he can?” Why, if Cartman knew of Kenny’s sad attachment, his pathetic friendship with a few wayward rodents, he’d hunt them down for sure, call Kenny to his office and slit their tiny throats in front of him. Kenny would stand there, as dark red stained their fur, and try not to cry, try not to amuse Cartman more with his pain. Then he’d be told to dispose of the mess, to wipe up the blood and take their corpses out with the garbage. Kenny isn’t allowed to have any friends, or anything that might make him happy.

“Cartman?!” The fur on Tweek’s back stands up, “No, no, no, we’re too quick for him, right? He won’t find us?”

“Course he won’t,” Craig settles down, “That’d require him moving his fat ass from his chair.”

“Yeah, but which does he hate more,” Clyde grinds his teeth, “Moving or Kenny?”

Tweek and Craig squeak in unison, “ _Definitely_ _Kenny_.”

Kenny lets out a sigh, turns his head. He peers down the hallway, squints to see the door to Cartman’s office. Once his friends are gone, he’ll walk the rest of the way down, knock on the door, and report to Cartman all he’s accomplished. He’ll inform him that, in accordance with his orders, he mopped the foyer and the ballroom, swept the parlour and the gallery, buffed all the dining room silverware and fluffed all the drawing room pillows. Then, Cartman will amend his list, adding a slew of extra chores, ensuring Kenny has no moment’s rest. This is their routine, as inevitable as the clock’s midnight toll, no way to avoid, only to endure.

“Listen,” Kenny looks back to the rats, tilting his head to the side, “You three _skee-dat_ and I’ll try ‘n getcha a treat for later. I’ll ask Wendy for some extra pumpkin squash or somethin’. Deal?”

Tweek, Craig, and Clyde discuss amongst themselves, chattering at a pace too swift for Kenny to follow. He assumes they agree, since Craig scampers to the corner rosette of the nearest door frame. With his snout, he pushes the light block aside, revealing a hole perfectly sized for a rodent. He squeezes into the darkness, the other two at his tail, and continue their day’s activities in their tunnels. Kenny taps the wood back in place, keeping their entrance a secret, and laughs. How many nooks and crannies conceal their passageways? And Kenny always assumed _he_ knew the manor house best.

Kenny rolls his shoulders, rises to his feet. In the window, he glimpses his reflection, captured by the sleekness. He inherited his father’s height, but even with his subtle muscle he gives the appearance of an old candlestick, lanky and crude. His clothes are basic, plain frock and wool pants, with an apron at the waist to hold smaller supplies. Golden hair sits in a tousled mess, no comb strong enough to defeat the constant disarray. He’s been told he has gentler features, Wendy noting a softness in his face, Bebe boldly proclaiming he could pass as a girl if he pleased. Kenny doubts he could go that far, but admits a lot has to do with his eyes; light sky blue, they display his emotion, mirror what’s inside. He’s learned to conceal his feelings, out of necessity, but every now and then he betrays himself, in a flash of anger, a flicker of contempt. Every time, Cartman is there to remind him the importance of repression.  

He resumes his journey, each stride heavier than the last, marching to a scolding he’s received a thousand times. At least he was the one sent here, not Kevin or Karen. Though he hasn’t seen them since the day their father sold them, he hears of them, through the tenuous networks set up between household servants. Communication is sporadic, messages exchanged only when occasion arises, all contact curt and indirect. Apparently Kevin fares decently at House Stoley, as the manor’s head groom, granted his own cottage near the stables. At House Black, Karen thrives as the Lady’s maid, even given a modest education in the rudimentary subjects. They haven’t dealt with the same levels of abuse Kenny has, but he doesn’t mind. He’d rather they be happy, live their lives, and, as he reaches the door, prays they never meet someone like Lord Eric Cartman.

_Knock-Knock!_

“ _What’re you waiting for? Get your ass in here!_ ”

Cartman is in a superbly _shitty_ mood. _Just his luck_.

Kenny breathes out, grabs the handle and pushes open the door. He leaves the halls’ stark embrace, sucked into the office thick with shadow. Although candles sit lit in sconces on the walls, their flames are weak, emitting feeble yellow glows. The fire, however, heats the room, Kenny stepping into sweltering warmth, humid with accruing sweat. At the centre of the room, Cartman lounges, seated in his fine armchair, his feet resting atop his immense desk. His heels slide against the easily tarnished wood, deliberately crafting more scuffs, entertaining himself with Kenny’s future misery. Butters stands at his side, a bunch of scrolls tucked under one arm, another unfurled in his hands. He furrows his brow, struggling to read the finely penned letters, decipher the meaning of the fanciful phrases. Butters must be summarising documents, drudging through the dense lines of text, then telling Cartman anything relevant. Meanwhile, Cartman tunes him out, more focused on his bowl of balled cheese-bread situated on his gut, scooping up handfuls and shovelling them in his mouth.

When Kenny shuts the door, Butters jumps up in surprise, pale grey eyes darting over. The freshest addition to the staff, Cartman largely forbade him from interacting with those under him, saying Wendy and Bebe were temperamental due to their sex, and citing Kenny as a particularly corrupting influence. Thus, Butters largely steers clear of lower servants, unless his instructions dictate otherwise, spending a majority of his time with their master. Such prolonged exposure has poisoned him, but not completely, not irreversibly. He maintains his folksier mannerisms, despite his friendliness being a fault in Cartman’s eyes, bubbly and genial with everyone he addressed. A wide grin dominates his face, Butters cheerily beaming, “Hiya, Kenny!”

“Hi, Butters,” Usually, Kenny doesn’t acknowledge him. He prefers their few conversations remain brief and terse, to avoid hearing Cartman’s lies filtered through another’s mouth. He’s been trained to act as his pawn, and furthermore trained to view Kenny as an unruly and froward pet. He held nothing against Butters, not personally; in fact, he detests Cartman that much more, for warping someone so wholesome into someone vile like himself. This, however, is a rare opportunity, to encourage rebellion through passive means. Maybe, someday, he’ll defy his indoctrination and despise the fat fucker too.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cartman’s glassy brown eyes flit to Butters, face scrunching into a glare. Butters blanches, threatened with disapproval, a shrill yelp escaping his lips. Reverting to docile subservience, he pointedly stares down, intently focusing on his shoes. Kenny can only see thin yellow hair crowning a mostly shaved head. Then, Cartman clears his throat, draws Kenny’s eyes back to him. Slowly, he brings another round lump, rips it in half with his teeth. He looks at Kenny, a sneer carved on his doughy face, and talks with a full mouth, “’Bout goddamn time, _Kinny_. What took you?”

 _Kenny_ , he thinks, _with an ‘eh’ not an ‘ee’ get my fucking name right_.

“I got here fast as I could,” He doesn’t know whether that counts as a lie, but supposes it doesn’t matter. He could’ve burst into the room panting, after sprinting from up flights of stairs and down countless hallways, and Cartman would still ask the same question, “Finished the list.”

“Oh, _did_ you?” Cartman leans back. He stuffs the rest of the bread in his mouth, without swallowing the previous bite. Despite his gentleman’s lessons, he chews with his mouth open, so Kenny can see the saliva coating bits of gooey flour. He is a glutton, demanding dinners the size of feasts, and a sadist, eating his enormous portion then watching the rest rot. The servants have their own food, meagre staples supplying bare nutrients, enough to keep them functioning without _spoiling_ them. Once he grinds his food small enough, “The foyer?”

“Mopped.”

“ _And_ the ballroom?”

“Uh huh.”

“The parlour?”

“Swept. Gallery, too.”

“You get to the silverware?”

“Every knife, spoon, ‘n fork,” Kenny smirks, struck by pride, “Then I got all the damn pillows.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” Cartman huffs, gulps. He taps his plump fingers on the rim of the bowl, pensive intensity brewing in the brown. There are plenty of things Kenny can do, but what would be the most degrading and humiliating? What would wear on that pitiful spirit and corrode that pesky attitude? What, in his humble opinion, would make Kenny hate his life more than he already does? Possibilities dance before his eyes, a sick smile growing the longer he stares.

“Uhm, my Lord?” Butters’ high voice quavers, dripping with trepidation. He looks at Cartman from under his lashes, bends the scroll, bringing his hands together. He rubs his fists, the wood rollers knocking lightly, as he stammers, “M-my neck kinda hurts...”

The smile vanishes, Cartman blinking once, twice. He cocks his head to the side, anger engulfing his eyes in a blaze. He never learned to control his rage, never matured out of boyhood tantrums. As he aged, his fits worsened, with no one to scold him, no one to punish him, no one to tame him. Some might feel bad for him, but not Kenny. He’s watched that rage burn too many for him to pity a monster. In a roaring snarl, Cartman screams, “ _Then stand up straight, retard!”_

The shout reverberates, bounces off the stone bricks and wood panels. The candles’ flickers shiver, and Butters drops his scrolls, curled parchment plummeting to the floor, clattering on the tile. His eyes bulge, frightened by his own error, entire body shuddering as he throws himself to the floor. While he panics, Kenny stands unfazed, too accustomed to the outbursts to fear them, their occurrence too frequent, their malice too commonplace. He rocks on the balls of his feet, confident that Butters’ innocent interruption earned Kenny an even more excruciating torture. Nothing personal, simply fact.

 “And _you_ ,” Cartman takes his feet from the desk, leans forward in his chair. His gaze is decisive, executive, like the glint of a broadsword, swinging down to the chopping block, to sever some poor soul’s head. Kenny has died to that look hundreds of _hundreds_ of times, but he always comes back. Sometimes, he wishes death would tap his shoulder, wishes Cartman would kill him on the spot, so he can achieve liberation in some afterlife. That will never happen, though, because Cartman will never let him leave this hell, “You will do _everything_ _over_ _again_ , ‘cause I’m sure you screwed up _somewhere_. And after _that_ you’ll wash the _dishes_ , and clean the _bathrooms_ , and polish the fucking _doorknobs_ ‘til they shine like _diamonds_. Am I making myself clear, _Kinny_?”

 _Eat shit,_ he wants to yell. He wants to rush right up to him, put his hands around his throat, and wring his bulky neck. He wants everything he values to be taken from him, the way he’s taken from so many others, the way he continues to take and take and take. He wants to ask why he makes people suffer, what he has against people, against _him_. He wants to know the reason he loathes Kenny with a _passion_ , why he’s so _vehemently_ devoted to running Kenny ragged, what Kenny ever did to inspire such pure and unbridled _hatred_. But instead, Kenny forces a simper, because Kenny is not allowed to do anything he wants, anything that might make him happy. His cheeks ache, as he adds a chipper edge to his voice, “Yes, _sir._ ”

Kenny bows, then turns to leave. He opens the door, pauses in the threshold, blinded by the pouring sunshine. His eyes flutter, adjusting to the light, and envies the sun, the stars, the moon. They declare of their own schedules, the hours determined by their wills alone. They don’t need to listen to anyone, let alone murderous thugs, safe above humanity’s heads. If only he could be a star, embedded in night’s safety, protected by day’s cloak.

“ _Oh_ , and _Kinny_ ,” How silly, Kenny thought _he_ might have the last word for once, “One more thing...”

Kenny barely glimpses over his shoulder, when he sees the bowl fly through the air, hurtle towards him. He ducks, scarcely avoids direct impact, feels the rim graze a few tall strands of hair. A few of the breaded balls roll around his feet, too leaden with cheese to soar the full distance, and the bowl meets its fate, slamming onto the carpet. Even with fabric buffering its fall, the bowl cracks, breaks into several jagged hunks, a fine potter’s craftsmanship reduced to mere shards in an instant. He stares at the shambles, for a good while, before turning back to Cartman, to brown eyes glazed with morbid delight.

“Clean that up, will ya?” Cartman speaks casually, waves his hand dismissively. A smug grin on his lips, he plops back in his chair, placing his feet back on the desk. He scuffs the glossy surface, puts his hands behind his head. He scans Kenny’s face, for cracks in his mask, for any emotion bleeding through. He _lives_ for this shit, “Someone might hurt themselves.”

There are so many things Kenny wants to do, so many things Kenny cannot do, because if he does, Cartman wins; Cartman _always_ wins. He exhales through his nose, a measured and calculated breath, as his cheeks go numb. He refuses to let his smile waver, let Cartman see him flinch, let Cartman claim another victory over him. No, Kenny swallows his emotions, lets them sluggishly slip down his throat, lets them choke him.

“I’ll get right on it,” _Choke_ , he wishes he could _choke_ , but knows he’ll keep breathing. He wishes he could _die_ , but knows he’ll keep living. He wishes a lot of things, but knows none will ever come true.

After all, Kenny is just a piece of furniture, with nothing of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a little late updating. This is my silly, happy story, but frankly after I finished the prologue I entered a time in my life that wasn't all that happy, so every time I started this chapter, I just ended up getting upset that it wasn't good enough. But I'm back on my feet and, y'know, I'm PUMPED to do this all again. Thanks to all of you leaving comments, kudos, and frankly just reading. I really hope you enjoyed this long overdue update, and hope you look forward to seeing Kenny continue his path to Disneyhood (again).


	3. By Royal Decree

The Broflovski monarchy has only existed for a few generations, their royalty born from circumstance. The former king, who invested most of his efforts in rhythm and blues, heavy soul food, and making love to women, employed the family as his Senior Counsel, on account of their merits serving in court. But when that king died, in a tragic adventuring accident, he left the throne empty, begetting no children despite spending a majority of his reign between bedroom sheets. What did leave, however, was an ironclad decree stating that, should the prior monarch pass without heirs, the crown would transfer to the top legal advisor, reward them for their dedication. With that, the Broflovski lineage achieved regal status, and prompted an era of prosperity and peace.

Honestly, their role of is largely ceremonial, or at least in the Crowned Prince’s case. His birthright dictates that, one day, he will govern the kingdom, like his father and grandfather before him; but, until that day, what does he do, _really_? His parents tell him he’s preparing, learning how to become a good king. Yes, over the years he’s been educated in science and arts, in history and politics, in etiquette and manners. He knows the laws of his kingdom and of his faith, the obligations of a sovereign and of a gentleman, the responsibilities he has to his subjects and to his family. Kyle manages his duties without much difficulty, excelling in all areas except _one_ : the issue of marriage.

The royal coach speeds along the country lane, a quiet and more scenic way to the castle, avoiding the unwanted attention generated on the main avenues. The horses hooves _clop-clop-clop_ on the tightly packed dirt, and Kyle pulls aside the curtain over the window, gazes at the evergreens passing him by. The matchmaking began as soon as he turned thirteen, officially a man and thus obligated to plot out his future. At first, it was just planning, arranging betrothals while meeting foreign liaisons, another diplomatic matter for deliberation. It was all hypothetical, so Kyle didn’t mind, smiling through dull introductions with young ladies of high stature, without ever considering any as a potential wife. But as he grew older, approached _that_ age, the efforts intensified, Kyle sent portrait after portrait of eligible ladies, asked question after question about his preferences, pressured again and again to _pick one_ and _propose_. Their persistence redoubled, as did his stalling.

The alpine forests ought to bring him comfort, thought of home usher a wave of calm. But nature’s majesty cannot keep his mind from drifting, keep him from dreading the inevitable. He’ll arrive and everyone will greet him, cordially ask about his stay abroad, shower him with warm words and beaming smiles. The hospitality will last only so long, until someone enquires about the people he encountered, specifically asking if anyone caught his eye, kept him company, daresay stole his heart. They’ll interrogate him, relentless and merciless, until he finally tells them, _no_ , he _didn’t_ , in a firm and final tone. Then, once again, he’ll be put on trail for his assumed indecision, a terrible crime when first-in-line. Everyone knows he’s putting it off, but they’re all too busy making speculations to ask _why_ he is. His brother says his standards are too high, but Kyle has no unrealistic expectations. His father suspects his anxiety stems from performing as a husband, but Kyle has no sexual trepidations. His mother believes his heart waits for his one true love, but Kyle has no romantic delusions. Kyle, quite frankly, has no _interest_ in marriage, detached to the point of aversion.

Unfortunately, he’s put off the notion for too long, run out of excuses, and _must_ get married.

A sigh slips from his lips, a long sorrowful breath. He’s put this off too long, run out of excuses, nowhere else to turn. He fogs the glass with his despair, view obscured by a cloud of doubt and melancholy. He knits his brow, rudely denied his last moments’ distraction, unfairly robbed of his final respite. As he uses the curtain as a rag, wipes up his misted ennui, the clomping changes timbre, metal shoes beating the wooden drawbridge, lowered as soon as the carriage entered the gatehouse’s sights. The horses then plod upon limestone pavers, the verdant pine needles and dark brown barks replaced with pale white bricks and mossy slate tiles, sylvan clutter traded for spacious bailey. The gallops’ cadence slows to a halt, and he shuts his eyes.

Why can’t they leave him alone, let him wait a few more years? Maybe by then, he’ll actually _care_.

With a faint creak, the sedan door opens, tearing away his protective shell of lacquered carvings and padded plush. Kyle opens his eyes to an invasion, assaulted by the afternoon’s bright rays, blinded by the sun. Vibrant tints whirl together, a blur of colour and light, forcing Kyle to squint, let his eyes adjust. He grasps for the golden frame, slowly rising from his seat, letting out a low groan. His vision clarifies, shapes forming, edges sharpening, as he hears a too familiar voice:

“Presenting His Royal Highness Prince _Buttwipe_ —”

“ _Fuck_ _you_.”

The Duke of Marsh and the Crowned Prince first met as mere tots, Stan invited to be one of Kyle’s playmates. The two instantly became best friends, virtually inseparable as they ran through the halls, pulling pranks and playing games, always together and always up to something. Their bond only strengthened the older they grew, Stan accompanying Kyle everywhere as his closest confidant, giving him somebody to make jokes and snicker with during the most banal events. Stan knows him better than anyone else, in ways no other knows him. Perhaps if Kyle met someone, someone who treated him the way Stan does, who made him feel open and genuine, he’d give marriage more consideration. _Perhaps_.

“Wow, and I _actually_ missed you, too,” He extends a friendly hand, to help Kyle descend the narrow coach steps. Kyle grips Stan by the wrist, wobbles on his climb down. After hours cooped up in a sedan, his legs ache, cramped from the time on the road. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and stretches, rolls his shoulders, lolls his head with a grumble. Stan stands a near half foot taller than him, with pitch black hair and rich ocean eyes, and, between the two of them, looks far more like the broad-shouldered storybook prince, “How was Canada?”

“Fun enough,” Kyle says, with a casual shrug, then draws in a deep breath of mountain air. Lungs fill with brisk ice, welcoming the freezing bone-chill, the wintery embrace he genuinely loves. More mild and soothing than their northern neighbour’s winds, less noxious and sulphuric too. Amongst them, Kyle stood out, his hair a mop of crimson curls, his eyes a striking shade of green, his appearance distinctly foreign. When he proposed his trip, a part of him felt bad exploiting his brother’s origins, solely for elaborate procrastination, but Ike lobbied on his behalf, on the condition Kyle put in a good word for him with their princess. He exhales, begins towards the castle steps, “Helped clear my head.”

“Yeah?” Stan follows, long strides easily catching up. He keeps pace with him, walking at his side, shirks the custom of allowing the royal family an extra step. As Kyle puts it, Stan is practically a member of the household, doesn’t need to observe the boorish and archaic practice. Though the monarchs should be the bastions of tradition, Kyle adores bending the rules, breaking them when he sees fit. However, considering the new precedents set by his father, redefining establishment may be in his blood.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Whilst servants attend to the horses and carriage, Kyle and Stan cross the yard, head to main entryway. The façade boasts soaring spires, arching buttresses, crystalline windows and graven doors. A grand clock presides over the court, a pearl face with ebony dials, affixed atop the highest tower, belting out a deafening peal to mark every hour. Kyle always wondered who ordered the monstrosity, annoyed by its awful drone and utter impracticality. Didn’t the architect realise that people could keep clocks _inside_ , where they could _see_ them, rather than run all the way out and gawk at the sky? They reach the fanning stairwell, the smooth rounded steps gradually narrowing with their ascent, when Kyle says, tone severe and grim, “I’m shit outta luck.”

“C’mon, Kyle” Stan sighs, because they’ve had this conversation before, a good hundred thousand times. He always tells Kyle how he’s in a similar position, the only son of his house. But Kyle always points out how tolerant his parents are, allowing Stan to approach taking a wife at his leisure, while Kyle’s press harder each year, “You’re being really dramatic about this.”

“My _title_ is _dramatic_ , asshat,” Once they mount the last step, a pair of servants push the double doors open, grant them passage into the foyer. As Kyle smiles at them, gives a gracious nod, and they bow, in the brand of ostentatious deference he loathes. He and Stan cross the threshold, oak slamming shut behind them, a loud _thud_ resounding through the chamber. Sweeping staircases flank the room, metal vines snaking around the rails, trim festooned with bronzed flowers and plated leaves. Balconies wrap around the walls, supported by modest pillars, stone a pinkish hue. Their footsteps echo, echo, echo, and Kyle hates the empty space.

“No, it’s _theatrics_ ,” Stan corrects him with his own phraseology, referencing Kyle’s recurrent rant about his job. A prince is an actor, performing in a play upon an epic stage, unaware whether he stars in a comedy, tragedy, or farce. Kyle wishes his part smaller, bored with the repetitive courtesies and bland dialogue, disillusioned with the one-dimensional characters and insipid plot devices. But with his silver tongue and golden heart, Kyle captivates his people, enchants them with flowering monologues. He flourishes under their attention, intense ardour exuding from his words, and, for his audience, truly adopts his role of the young future king, “The other stuff is _all_ _you_.”

But his victories can be undone, should he carelessly select the wrong partner. Being a prince is being a strategist, too, something Kyle learned when he was eight years old, when his father taught him the rules of chess. Success lies in a strong king, but alone, the king is the weakest token. He requires his pawns, his bishops, his knights and his rooks, but his queen is his most valuable piece. A good king needs a queen who understands her power, who compliments his tactics, who improves what her husband lacks. A single ill-conceived move may jeopardise the kingdom, destroy their stability, fall their name. Kyle has no interest in marriage, because just a single ill-conceived move might in the endgame put him in checkmate.

“ _Whatever_ ,” He says in a huff, chest heavy and leaden. He wants to go upstairs, retreat into his bedroom, lay down on an actual bed and sleep off the pains of travelling. But alas, he passes under the mosaic ceiling with its gilded chandelier, bound for the throne hall to reunite with his parents, so they can remind him why he left in the first place, “Doesn’t make it less dumb. I mean, my dad isn’t on his deathbed or anything like that. I shouldn’t need to get married now.”

“It’s a peace of mind thing,” Stan speaks on behalf of reason, his level-head something Kyle both loves and despises. Kyle is a naturally passionate person, which often means he is an extremely _stubborn_ person. Though he often leans on ethics and character, he can succumb to waves of passion, consumed by his own strong will, a fire feeding on itself. Stan balances him, with his cooler composure, pointing out the logic Kyle refuses to see, “You get married, they get a princess, and there’s hugs and puppies all around.”

“Oh, everything’s _great_ ,” Kyle sneers, having considered every scenario, every prospect broken down, with the same bleak conclusions, “Until my wife ends up being a raging _bitch_ who actually _hates_ me, or a shallow _narcissist_ who _burns_ the treasury, or fucking _advertisement_.”

“So, what’s your play?” He narrows his eyes, his tone sharp and steeled, “Just go on avoiding it and screwing your tutors?”

Stan never liked Gregory, thought him pompous and uptight. Kyle realised the truth of his judgement, _after_ their month-long affair, when he abandoned his position without notice. No one else found out, which must be why Stan doggedly holds against him, bent on reminding him until the day he dies. Blood pools beneath Kyle’s cheeks, and he shoots Stan a hard glare, “ _That was one time_.”

“Point is,” He rolls his eyes, “If you can give some prick from Yardale a chance, you can give other people the same one. And it’ll turn out _way_ better, for the kingdom _and_ for _you_.”

Every part of him wants to argue, to find some earthshattering flaw in Stan’s sound reasoning. But he can’t. He can’t tell Stan he’s wrong when he’s _right,_ right in every respect, right in ways Kyle wishes he wasn’t. Rather than concede, admit defeat, Kyle grunts, stares forward, prideful and headstrong. He presses his lips into a tight line as they near the throne room, as his time runs thin. His stomach knots tightly, sinks in his gut, overcome by a creeping sensation. He doesn’t fear his parents, not their power or their wrath, but he does fear consequences, the consequences he’s dodged for oh so long. He takes another step, and the doors swing open.

A carpeted dais hosts the seats of the royal family, a chair made for each member, so all can oversee the court. The princes rarely attend, Kyle and Ike only called on special circumstance, but today Ike lounges slouched in his chair, boredom plastered on his face. Tedium glazes iron eyes, but when his gaze falls on Kyle, the round beads sparkle. Beside him, Queen Sheila fusses with her red pouffe, hair stacked high in a past era’s fashion. Once adjusted satisfactorily, her eyes flicker to Kyle, red painted lips curving into an enormous grin. Next to her, King Gerald sits poised, wearing the stately crown, head always covered. His expression softens, giving Kyle a warm look, welcoming him back. At his right is Kyle’s empty seat, the throne of the crowned prince, and Kyle wonders how mere carpentry can capture his inner sadness so well. But chairs cannot get married, and for that he envies them.

“Oh, _bubbie_ , you’re finally home!” Sheila’s native accent slathers her words, her pitch shrill and piercing. She restrains herself from flying from the platform, rushing to her son and hugging him like a small child. In her eyes, Kyle will always be her little boy, her sweet _yeled tov_ , but he’s a grown man, beyond his twenty-second birthday, and inheriting the crown; she can’t coddle him forever. She flattens her dress, hands rolling over the satin folds, “How was your trip? Did the Canadians treat you well? The weather wasn’t too bad was it, y’know you catch colds so easily especially during blizzard season—”

“I’m fine, _Ma_ ,” Kyle says, somewhat comforted hearing his mother’s rambling. She cares about her sons, with every ounce of her heart, wants only the best for him and for Ike. Why can’t she understand that marriage isn’t best for Kyle? “The embassy was fine, the weather was fine, _everything was fine_.”

“How’s the Princess?” Ike asks with a smirk. When Sheila and Gerald failed to conceive a second after Kyle, they passed a decree allowing adoption to all couples, including the royal house. Though officially a Royal Knight of Canada, his title as a Broflovski Prince precedes all else, and entertains a possible courtship between him and the Maple Maiden, “She miss me?”

“ _Ike_ ,” Sheila gives him a stern and admonishing look. Ike may be eager to advance his engagement, but nothing can be done until Kyle takes another’s hand. He fronts for his brother, empathises with his dilemma, but he knows Ike is just as frustrated with him as his parents. Things would’ve been so much easier were Kyle born second.

“Oh _terribly_ ,” Kyle says, teasing at a smirk. Eventually, that annoyance will sow into resentment, and Kyle will lose one of his few allies; if he hasn’t already, “Soon as she heard you weren’t with me she got her bard to sing how for _you_ her heart goes _on_ and _on_.”

Ike sticks out his tongue, because if their mother weren’t there he’d give him the finger. At least he isn’t fed up with Kyle. Not _yet_ , anyway.

“Speaking of _that_ ,” Gerald has a talent for inserting himself into the conversation, whether his remarks warranted or not. No one protests, assuming their king has every right in speaking, though Kyle thinks they ought to, “Your mother and I have been talking.”

Kyle’s smile fades, ebbing away in a few blinks. His respect for his father often wavers, oscillating between tolerance and irritation. In the public’s eye, Gerald maintains a positive image, balancing the aristocracy’s demands with the requests of the common. Hiding in his study, however, are private diaries, pages and pages of vile and vicious commentary, senseless cruelty tucked away on a shelf. Whatever the future holds, Kyle hopes he can be a better king than him.

“About what?” He feigns innocence, then venom coats his tongue, prepares for the fight. Barely any pleasantries this time around, Kyle must really be gnawing his patience. Of course, he wouldn’t be, were Gerald not grating his nerves with this at all. From the corner of his eye, he sees Stan bite his lip, relegated to silent observer. For all the power Kyle allows him with their friendship, Stan must abide by the King’s rules, namely that in _actual_ family matters he know his place.

“Now Kyle,” Gerald’s favourite part of being king is talking down to people, or that’s Kyle’s theory. For someone who demands filial respect, he frequently directs his condescension at his own son, “Most families don’t care what their children want and force them into these political unions for selfish purposes. They prioritise a convenient alliance over sustaining happiness, which we don’t agree with.”

“And we’ve been very generous letting you choose yourself, Kyle,” Sheila talks with her hands, but her frantic gestures won’t sway him, won’t convince him of their benevolence. How many times will they claim to value his heart above all else, yet still push and push and _push_ him? “We just want you to be happy.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Perhaps he gets his obstinacy from Gerald, both so adamant in their ideals, determined to be _right_. No wonder this argument has never broached agreement, “Which is why _we_ were thinking about expanding your options. You know, give a few duchesses or marchionesses a shot. Maybe some countesses if that doesn’t work out.”

Why limit his rejection to the highest class? Throw him to those even more petty and power-hungry, who will care even less about him and more about rank! They must have never heard that old joke about the aristocrats.

“ _That’s_ your solution?” Kyle asks, almost laughing. His veins run hot, fire in his blood, body struck with outrage. This must be their plan, make the process progressively _agonising_ until he relents, draws a name from a hat, and rushes beneath the canopy. He feels Stan’s gaze on him, apologetic and sorry, appreciated but _useless_.

“Kyle, we’re doing the best we can,” Sheila used his name, she must be distraught! Torn to pieces over this mess! Why won’t he just take someone’s hand? Why won’t he provide his mother a sense of security? Why won’t he give her a daughter-in-law and a slew of grandchildren? In a softer tone, she adds, “We just want what’s best.”

“For _you_ ,” Kyle hisses, balls his hands into fists, “You want what’s best _for you_.”

“For the _kingdom_ ,” Gerald’s voice cuts, severe and clinical, “ _You_ need to get married. That’s not up for negotiation, that’s part of your duty as a sovereign and as our son.”

“I’ll do it _later_ ,” Kyle hears a drop in his voice, a falter in his conviction. Has he said this so much, so many times, that it’s lost its meaning? Even to him?

“You said that when you were _eighteen_ and we allowed it,” He was right in his thinking, “You said it at nineteen and we allowed it,” He’s used all his spare time, “And at twenty and twenty-one,” He’s run out of excuses, “You’re _done_ putting this off.”

_You’re shit outta luck._

Kyle stares a long moment, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. Stupid, this is all so _stupid_. They see his refusal as immaturity, as shirking his responsibilities, as childish fears and restless apprehensions. He founded his decision on the good of the kingdom, or so he tells himself. He doesn’t want to ruin his future reign before it begins, by accidentally selecting a gold-digger or a figurehead or a person he just doesn’t _like_. He’s had so many suitors, but none he’s really known, let alone had a chance to like.

Or maybe Kyle never gave them that chance, just discarded them after one quick look. In his youth, he heard stories about love at first sight, a notion he never believed in, _doesn’t_ believe in. He may be derailed by bouts of emotion, of fervour and zeal, but he has a rational mind. He understands lust at first sight, felt it a time or two himself, but never love. Love is complicated and messy, its trappings often left out of the fairy-tales, simply summed up as the couple living happily ever after. Kyle is no fool, knows love is confusing, is sloppy, is _separate_ from _marriage_. He does not expect to love his bride, but he at least wants someone bearable, someone who could serve as a companion, a friend.

He channels his breath through his nose, letting out a slow and calculated exhale. He sees Sheila’s tearful eyes, sees Ike’s concerned stare, but Kyle focuses on Gerald’s harsh glower, an ultimatum etched in green. Cooperation or coercion, those are Kyle’s true options, and now he must pick wisely. His choice does not matter, for he’ll be married either way, no matter what.

“And if I say no to all them, what’re you gonna do?” Choice might be an illusion, but Kyle refuses to yield without a fight, “Just move to down the ranks? Make me shuffle through the gentry, too?”

“We just want you to find _someone_. As long as she’s who you want—”

“Well where _the hell_ am I gonna find her, huh?” Kyle throws his hands in the air, “Are you just gonna _throw a ball_ and have me meet _every girl in the kingdom_ so I can meet _the one_?”

Silence befalls the chamber, an unsettling, suffocating quiet. Kyle’s words hang in the air, but the snide and sour edge dissipates. No, the revelation reflects in his father’s eyes, taking snark as _suggestion_ , a solution to his grievances. Statistically speaking, out of every maiden in the kingdom, Kyle is bound to like one, and all he has to do is like her. Then, their conundrum is solved. Gerald’s eyes twinkle, and Kyle’s complexion drains.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Gerald turns his head to Stan, a small smile on his lips, “Why I’d issue that as a royal decree.”

Stan’s mouth gapes wide, conflicted between his best friend and his king. And, loyal as he is to Kyle, for now he adheres to the current king, not future one, must obey his commands. Kyle can’t hate him for that, even if it hurts watching Stan gulp, bow his head, and deliver his reply, “I’ll… get on it, Your Majesty.”

“ _Excellent!_ ” Gerald claps his hands, “Then it’s settled.”

“Oh, a ball,” An immense smile dominates Sheila’s face, “How wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!”

Ike and Stan hold their tongues, the two looking to Kyle, the same worry in their eyes. They both stare, watch the light dwindle in his eyes, as he accepts his own words as his undoing. There’s no way out of this one, not when it can be traced to his idea, even if proposed in spite. This is happening, by royal decree, a ball for Kyle to finally end his postponement, finally find a wife.

“ _Shit_ ,” Kyle and his big _fucking_ mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after finishing the first chapter I just. Didn't wanna stop. But I will probably be slow in the next chapter since I'm moving (again) and have other things to update. Thanks for reading/kudos/reviews! I appreciate it and hope you super enjoyed and will continue to enjoy.


	4. Make Anyone a Princess

Once each month, all the Lords of the land convene at some fancy chalet and discuss the plights of their privileged lives. This assembly always concludes with the formation of a small committee of the highest-ranking nobles, who later seek an audience with the King to relay to him all the present plagues crippling the aristocracy, and demand a solution tailored to their premeditated conditions. Cartman loves to complain afterwards how nothing ever comes from these meetings, because his peers are incompetent and their King is corrupt, but Kenny knows he only hates them because he’s never picked for the nobles’ liaison. Nonetheless, Cartman attends, with Butters in tow, and relishes his coveted time amongst the elite. On these days, from the late morn until the early dusk, the Manor is free of Cartman’s disgusting and deplorable existence, offering the servants a rare degree of independence, and giving Kenny a much-needed _break_.

Metal pierces wool, slender silver puncturing the thick material, before it penetrates soft cotton beneath. A strand of pale gold threads together two layers, stitching lavender bodice with ivory skirt, united by the uneven seam of an amateur. Kenny pinches the fabric and plies the needle, bites his lip and fears its prick. For a long while, he couldn’t go a stitch without poking himself, his fingers constantly riddled with stab wounds, some gushing deep red. Practice has improved his technique, Kenny more adept at avoiding unwelcome pokes, but he’s still convinced the silver thirsts for his blood, often defying his hand’s guidance in pursuit of a taste. Though he no longer crowns each finger with a thimble, he keeps his collection on the dresser, accessible in case of an ambush.

The tip slowly emerges, dangerously close to his index finger, and he pauses, adjusts his grip. Most consider handicrafts a feminine habit, reserved for those _simple_ and _fair_. But those people treat women like _shit_ , don’t understand the skill needed for crochet, the finesse involved in embroidery, the expertise required to sew. Some years ago, on a day like this, the manor deserted and cleaning finished, when Kenny found Bebe and Wendy sitting on the staircase, cross-stitching on handheld canvases. The girls were shocked by his interest, his tone genuine rather than patronising, eyes wide with fascination, not glazed with boredom. After a bit of didactic explanation, they asked Kenny what he did for fun, their innocent question met with abrupt silence, no reply. Kenny’s gaze lowered as the girls exchanged glances, silently conferring with one another, before looking back at him. Wendy held up a canvas, Bebe the needle, and the two invited Kenny to join, and gave Kenny the only real hobby he’s ever had.

Hand out of harm’s way, Kenny nudges the needle along, until its eye peeks out amongst purple. The material reminds him of the lavenders Karen loves, the fragrant flowers she gathered from shrubs around their childhood home. The wool has the same fuzziness as those whorls, clusters of buds all blossoming and bursting. After the frustration brought on by his rat-friends’ refusal to wear the tiny clothes he made them, Kenny decided to make something for Karen, a present to show her brother still cared for her. His plan has its problems—Kenny’s guessed her proportions, a good part of him doubting the dress will fit, and hasn’t thought of shipping, wary of the underground methods available—but keeps him busy, keeps his mind occupied, keeps a small ray of hope alive in his heart.

Kenny pulls the thread through, a long comet trailed by a shining tail, soaring until the gold tugs taut. A proud smile grows on his face as he sits back on his stool. For someone clumsy as Kenny, any stitch without injury is a hard-fought victory. In his revelling, however, he forgets how small his room is, leaning into the ceiling’s steep slant. With a loud _thunk_ , his head bangs against a wooden beam, dull ache resonating through his sorry skull. He groans, his moment’s celebration spoiled, lolling his head to the side. His eyes wander from the dress, glide over his meagre furnishings—the chest crammed in the corner, the wash basin shoved to the wall, the bed tucked under the low slope—until his gaze falls on the solitary window. Out of all forty-three rooms, Kenny’s is the worst in all regards save for one: the view.

From this high up, the walls encircling the manor lawn look tiny, like stacks of pebbles. Trees surround the stone, thick forest expanding outwards, segregating the house from the estate’s humble farmlands, their tracts beyond his scope. A paved road bends and curves, a stream connecting the entire kingdom, with tributaries of dirt and cobble creating shortcuts and detours. The mountains slice the sky, rock and snow rivalling air and cloud, their mighty peaks crowning the horizon. In the far distance, carved along a cliff-side, Kenny sees the castle, green slate capping white towers, the lavish home of the monarchs.

The royal residence, Kenny reckons, has a lot more rooms than Cartman Manor, and a lot more servants, too. How many do they have just for single tasks, like moping the floors, or washing the windows, or polishing the silverware? Do the King and Queen revise the chore lists midway through the day, extend the day’s work into the night? Do the Princes deliberately make messes, throw fits then demand their aftermath swept away? Are they kind to their help, thankful for and appreciative of them? They must be, he concludes, because a castle like that must be an awful lot to manage.

_Squeak! Squeak!_ Kenny blinks, looks down at the floorboards, at the three rats loafing in the midday light. Clyde lays in a clump near the chest, tail carelessly swishing back and forth, sometimes in shade and sometimes in sunshine. Tweek leans over Craig, grooming his black-and-white fur, cleaning his back with nibbles and licks. Craig sits nonchalant, his eyes fixed on Kenny, a judgemental stare. His nose twitches, and Kenny translates, “That seam looks like _shit_.”

“ _Pff_ ,” Kenny rolls his eyes; whatever the species, human or rat, _everyone’s_ a goddamn critic. He glances back at his latest stitch, frown forming as he notices its crookedness, a sloppy serpentine weave. Yes, he used to be worse, so terrible his needlework fell apart before he finished. He’s advanced to _mediocre_ , to functional but messy, awkward despite his experience. He furrows his brow, mumbles under his breath, “Love to see you do better.”

Clyde lets out a few chirps, a rodent’s laugh, and rolls lazily, “Three ‘f us pro’ly _could_.”

“You gonna sing a song too?” Kenny jabs the needle into the wool, a bitter extension of his slipshod stitch. Sewing may frustrate him sometimes, but there’s something truly therapeutic about repeatedly stabbing something. Maybe that’s why these crafts are popular amongst women.

Tweek and Craig trade places, continuing their mutual grooming. Tweek fidgets some, until Craig nips at the nape of his neck, then settles. His teeth grind together, then he looks to Kenny, peeps out, “That’s dumb.”

“ _You’re_ dumb,” Kenny sneers in a childish tone. Do grown men often lose arguments to household vermin, or does that only happen to him? When he drives the needle through, the point emerges, but not where he expects, sinks into his finger with a sharp prick. He draws back quickly, hisses through clenched teeth, “ _Shit_.”

He first scans the dress, praying nothing dripped onto the fabric, his hard work untainted by his heavy hand. He lets the blood pool and dribble, a droplet forming and plummeting, splattering on his apron. Red seeps in, a new stain on an old cloth, as Kenny sighs in relief, seeing only violets and golds and ivories. He brings his finger to his lips, applies pressure with his tongue, and sucks the wound. A metallic taste coats his tongue, iron born from silver, the needle’s spite. He suffers enough at his master’s hands, does he really deserve _more_ abuse?

_KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!_

Someone raps on the door, in quick succession, with a woodpecker’s cadence. His body stiffens, ears perk, conditioned to freeze at any disruption, regard with reluctance and caution. During a normal day’s work, Butters interrupts him at least once or twice, taps timid despite his relative authority. And, no matter what, Kenny stops what he’s doing, feigns tempered complaisance, and listens to Butters deliver the only message he carries: _Lord Eric wishes to see you_ , or, more accurately, _Lord Dickhead came up with more chores_. Through his nose, a steady and slow breath, as Kenny reminds himself that neither tyrant nor lackey are here.

_“Kenny!”_ Bebe’s breezy lilt ushers a wave of reassurance, her voice softening him, eradicating the tension. Although his blood sister resides in another manor far away, he has two surrogate sisters in Bebe and Wendy. A grin sneaks on his face, and Bebe pounds the door thrice more, _“Hey, open up!”_

Out the corner of his eye, he sees the rats scurry across the floor, dart to a crack in the wall. Lonely Kenny might not mind them, but most people find a rat’s presence offensive, shouldering the reputation of petty thief and plague carrier. Wendy and Bebe are kind to Kenny, but Clyde, Tweek, and Craig know the courtesy doesn’t extend to them. So, the three of them take their leave, all filing into the nook and retreating from sight. In the evening, they’ll return, keep Kenny company again.

He takes his finger from his mouth, dries it with a quick wipe on his frock. Carefully, he loops the thread around the needlepoint, cinches a knot at the base of his stitch, twice to be safe. Seam secured, Kenny tucks the needle in the wool, and gets up from his seat. Kenny once described his room as _cramped_ , however, since introducing the dress-stand, _claustrophobic_ suits it better. One side-step, one turn, another step, and he opens the door, shuffling around its swing.

Big round eyes stare up at him, a blue tinted green, like rainwater in a birdbath’s pool. Blonde hair drapes over her shoulders, curled rivulets curtaining her cheeks, always a pale shade of pink. Rose petal lips forms a wide grin, showing off her pearly teeth. She rises to her tip toes, the top stair whining beneath her, “Y’know, if you keep trying to skip lunch, Wendy’s gonna get _super_ self-conscious about her cooking.”

_Lunch_ , his stomach pangs, angry and vindictive. How dare he forget lunch, and on his free day no less! Cartman already keeps their meals brief, allotting Bebe, Wendy, and Kenny just enough time to scarf down their food before chiding them for laziness. Though they squeeze conversation between hungry bites and eager sips, they don’t need to worry with Cartman off elsewhere. They can relax, eat and chat, savour the simplicities of life they seldom enjoy otherwise.

Kenny laughs, ignores his gut’s vengeful contractions, “Wendy? Self-conscious? _Really?_ ”

“Happens to everyone, Ken,” Bebe rolls her eyes, bobs her head to the side. For _emphasis,_ Kenny assumes, until she peers over his shoulder, eyes brimming with curiosity. He can’t recall when he mentioned his silly dream to her, some casual mention or passing remark, but Bebe took it to heart, made it her mission to help Kenny see it through. She asked him what fabrics he wanted, their colours and their lengths, and supplied him from the wardrobe’s stock. While she asks every day, she rarely sees the progress in person. Of course, Kenny considers that a _good_ thing. He leans against the frame, easily blocking her view. A smirk pulls at his lips, and a frown appears on hers, “How’s it coming?”

“ _Along_ ,” Kenny shrugs, eyes following hers. Bebe tries poking her head around his other side, but Kenny darts in front of her, uses the door for further obstruction. She furrows her brow, glaring at him from under long lashes.

“See? Even _you’re_ self-conscious,” A huff mingles with her laugh, unable to hide her disappointment. The board moans as she lowers herself down, gingerly descends one step. The narrow and rickety stairwell matches his tiny and ramshackle room, steep as the ceiling and dingy as the walls. The shaft catches every draft in the house, collects the cold and stores it with Kenny, mistaking his quarters for the larder. Bebe lightly rubs her arms, chill bleeding through her sleeves, “C’mon, you could use something warm in ya.”

A loud gurgle from his stomach, Kenny beaten to a reply before he can part his lips. Bebe smirks, then turns around, starting her trek down the hazardous flight. Kenny snorts, shuts the door behind him, and follows her, listening to the stairs writhe beneath their weight. Maybe one day, Cartman will make one of his rare visits to Kenny’s doorstep, only for the staircase to collapse under his weight, send him tumbling down. With Kenny’s luck, though, the stairs would support Cartman’s heavy poundage, only to crumble beneath Kenny’s light frame. He’d fall, receive a reprimand, and have nowhere to sleep until he repaired the steps himself.

Bebe and Kenny reach the stairwell’s end, the two popping out into a side corridor. Like a discarded toy, Cartman dumped Kenny somewhere out of his way, an obscure spot where he can dwell far from sight, forgetting about him unless he needs him. For his first couple months, Kenny often got lost searching for his room, manor layout still unfamiliar, hours spent wandering through the spacious chambers in search of the unassuming passage. He made up his own landmarks, devised a mental map, directions based on what caught his eye. As the two traverse towards the main staircase, Kenny glances at his monuments: a portrait of a doll in the corridor, a granite fireplace in the lounge, a cabinet with a tea set in the private drawing room, a statue of a frog in the main hallway, then follow the carpet.

The flight between the third and second storeys dwells behind a panelled wall, hidden save for one platform landing, framed by an archway. Beyond that is the foyer’s balcony, along with the staircase carved from pale cottonwood. In the chandelier’s glow, the wood looks like silver, but remains soft to the touch. Kenny’s hand brushes along the smooth railing, its slope a gentle incline, then a twisting curve, shaped like a cat’s tail raised with a contently curled tip. Sometimes, whilst dusting or mopping, he imagines sliding down the winding bannister, wonders whether he’d feel a rush of exhilaration or fear. Thoughts are all that can entertain him, because Kenny can’t be punished for what goes on in his head, only face consequences for his actions.  

_“Are you the mistress of the house?”_

_“No, there’s only the lord and he’s out right now.”_

Kenny’s eyes flit to the entry, spying Wendy at the front door, holding it open. He squints, hoping for a better look. He can only see Wendy’s back, sleek ebony flowing to her waist, reflecting glints of sunlight. She faces a stranger, a stout man with an air of importance, dressed in some sort of fancy uniform. A satchel hangs from one shoulder, stuffed with scroll cases, their caps bearing a detailed crest, one Kenny doesn’t recognise, but feels like he should.

“Well, that’s not a problem at all,” The man reaches into his sack, pulls out the first case he grabs, and hands it to Wendy, “See, this is extended for all members of the household, help included.”

“Really?” Just from her tone, Kenny pictures her expression, her hazel eyes narrowing with healthy scepticism, scrutinising their visitor with a hard stare. Wendy can go from disarming to fierce in the span of a breath, making her the most intimidating person Kenny has ever met, “What is it?”

“You’ll find out when you open it,” The stranger pauses, snared in Wendy’s gaze. She unnerves him, his lips pressing into a tight, thin line. He simpers weakly, “Just know the _opportunity_ is open to _anyone_ , so you best attend.”

Wendy slowly takes the scroll, then gives the man a nod. He tips his hat, then bounds off for the next house. She shuts the door, turns around, spotting Kenny and Bebe. Her eyes change, murky green to earth umber, small smile teasing at her lips, “And here I thought I’d have all the soup to myself.”

“Tough luck,” Bebe says, dismissive edge to her voice. She ignores the last stair, excitedly hopping onto the tile, and rushing to Wendy, her steps mimicking a skipping stone. She reaches for the scroll, but Wendy dodges her, shoots her a stiff glower. Bebe pouts, her plans thwarted again, “Care to share?”

“There was a knock at the door, and I answered it,” Wendy fixates on Bebe, observing her every move as Kenny approaches her side. Her attention focused on Bebe, Kenny stealthily snatches the scroll, in one quick motion. Wendy whips around, reaching as Kenny raises it high above his head, safely out of her reach. Bebe laughs, Kenny grins, and Wendy frowns, “Some guy from the castle was waiting.”

_“The castle!?”_

Kenny glances at the crest. He only knows the royal seal from cleaning up after Butters’ sloppy paperwork, the extra-important looking documents all marked by their stamp. He lowers the case, inspecting the symbols on the coat, foolishly falling into Bebe’s range. She plucks it from his hands, starts unscrewing the cap. Rather than fight her and risk a scratch, Kenny simply watches, mumbles under his breath, “The hell do _they_ want?”

Bebe takes out the scroll, eagerly unfurls the parchment, and Wendy and Kenny crowd around her. Pristine calligraphy adorns the sheet, script neat and elegant, ink alternating between black, green, and gold. Printed across the top in bold letters, he reads **_Royal Decree_** , then, scrawled just below, **_Invitation to All_**. He skims the other paragraphs, gleaning what he can from the flowery text: In celebration of the Crowned Prince’s return… King and Queen cordially announce… Royal Ball held at the castle… Everyone welcomed to attend… At the end of the night…

“’At the end of the night, Crowned Prince Kyle,’” Wendy reads aloud, “’Shall choose a bride from those in attendance. Class and social standing have no impact on the decision, therefore we encourage any and every eligible maiden to come.’”

“Are they _serious_?” Disbelief rings in Bebe’s voice, nearly dropping the scroll, “ _Any_ eligible maiden?”

“They must be _desperate,_ ” Wendy muses, eyes flickering back and forth as she rereads the paragraph. She shakes her head, “Really, _really_ desperate.”

“Hold on,” Kenny has never given royal affairs much thought, or frankly _any_ thought at _any_ point in his life. He only knows what the fairy-tales and bedtime stories taught him, “Aren’t princes supposed to marry, like, _princesses?_ ”

“Yeah, they do,” Bebe says flatly. She doesn’t elaborate, brain still processing, stunted by shock.

“Most of the time they’re arranged by the parents beforehand for some strategic benefit,” Wendy fills in. Even without formal schooling, Wendy’s understanding far exceeds that of their supposedly educated lord.

“Oh,” A lot less romantic than the stories he grew up with. Then again, children’s tales aren’t the most reliable source of information, “Any reason his wasn’t?”

“King and Queen opposed using their sons as political gambits,” Wendy leans away, gaze shifting to Kenny, “Said they’d let their sons pick for themselves.”

“So, they marry who they want,” Not precisely a storybook plot, but clear and digestible as one, “But they gotta marry someone.”

“Yeah, and they want him to pick _anyone_ ,” Bebe scrunches up the scroll, wildly glancing between Kenny and Wendy. Her eyes sparkle with pure jubilee, a glowing smile dominating her face, “He’ll marry _anyone_ in the entire kingdom!”

_Anyone_ —be she baroness or barmaid, tailor or cook, of noble birth or of common beginning—with the Crowned Prince’s favour, anyone can be a princess. Bebe can be. Wendy can be. Karen can be. It sounds like fantasy, a fiction invented for a lullaby, but the invitation is _real_ , the decree is _law_. By the end of the ball, Crowned Prince Kyle will choose a bride, and make _anyone_ a _princess_.

“Calm down,” Wendy says, hope softening her timbre, and reason dampening her tone, “We might not be able to go at all.”

Cartman, why would Cartman let his servants attend a ball, infiltrate the elite, possibly surpass his rank? Decree or no, nothing explicitly states attendance mandatory, stipulates all eligible appear in the castle court. If the girls’ only freedom is marriage, why escort them to a potential liberation? He won’t, he’ll deny them the option, the happiness, go alone to the party and brag about it every chance he gets, if only to remind them what might have been. Kenny’s stomach lurches, sickened by the cruelty bound to come.

Bebe and Wendy both look at Kenny, blends of doubt and wistful thinking replaced with alarm. _Lunch_ , now _they_ almost forgot, too wrapped up in the ifs and maybes, wasting time while Kenny wastes away! Bebe rolls up the scroll quickly, shoves it back in its case, and shakes her head free of frivolous daydreams. Wendy locks eyes with Kenny, “You’re getting a _double_ serving.”

An order not a request, almost a threat. But her firmness is out of love, a stern strain of compassion, because Wendy’s soul is still intact. Her and Bebe both deserve better, their hearts too big, their spirits too bright. They deserve to go to the ball, to dance in lovely dresses, to meet the Crowned Prince. They deserve to escape from this place, to be princesses, to live happily-ever-after. As they head to the kitchen, to the bubbling pot of winter squash soup, Kenny thinks about the ball, about going, about stupid dreams he thought long dead.

What if, for some reason, Cartman indulges them, grants them a single night’s glory? Could Kenny see his siblings again, reunite with his sister and brother? Could he talk with the palace servants, ask how they maintain all the chambers and halls? Could he meet the Crowned Prince, ask if he could do anything to help Wendy and Bebe leave? Come to think of it, Kenny barely knows anything about the royal family, but he knows that Cartman hates them, Crowned Prince Kyle especially. If Cartman hates him, then he must be a good person. If he can make anyone a princess, then he absolutely is.


	5. A Change of Heart

Kenny never saw Cartman laugh harder than when he read the royal decree. He broke into hysterics, tears sleeking brown, bulbous belly jiggling as his peals of twisted cackling soured the air. He poisoned happiness, perverting elation into something vitriolic, sheer joy matched only by pure malice. He was disturbing but predictable, Cartman so reliable in his audacity, his outrageous disrespect, his complete disregard for others and infatuation with himself. Once finished reading, he rolled up the scroll, wiping his tears with his sleeve, then tossed it with the firewood and, as though his intent wasn’t clear, gave Kenny his instructions: _“Burn that garbage with the rest of the faggots.”_

None of them expected a change of heart, because Cartman doesn’t have one of those. Yet disappointment still hangs over the manor, a thick fog permeating throughout all forty-three rooms, its sadness seeping into every sofa and stool. Hope is fool’s gold, lustrous and lovely until its illusion ebbs away, leaving only loss, a longing for something that was never really there. Kenny knows of hope’s many guises—liquor in a bottle, drugs in a vial, summons in a scroll—knows better than to fall for its fictitious shine. Except the hollowness lingers in his chest, Kenny mourning a night he’d never have, because it was never his _to_ have.

Sudsy water sloshes, Kenny dipping his brush into a pail, soaking the bristles thoroughly. Cartman must have smelt their optimism, these last days’ chores particularly gruelling, but lacking innovation. Their volume masks their tactless value, unusual for someone whose pastime is instilling misery in his servants. Since receiving the invitation, Cartman’s been _preoccupied_ , lashing out with smoke instead of fire, his hatred funnelling elsewhere. He cannot go a breath without mentioning the monarchy, without going on a tangent about the royal family, without dedicating a lengthy tirade to insulting Crowned Prince Kyle _personally_. Why, Cartman hates him _more_ than he hates Kenny, and he hates Kenny a hell of a lot.

He scrubs the parlour’s marble mosaic, bubbles adhering to his circular motions, clusters of foam floating across the puddle’s surface. He tries to focus on the washing, cleansing his head with the soapy slush, but his thoughts keep wandering, a moth tempted by a snuffed-out flame. The water prunes his fingers, the bending hurts his back, but neither distract, stop his mind from wading in wonder, then wallowing in remorse. He doesn’t understand why those silly dreams keep pestering him, teasing and taunting, torturing him in his master’s stead. Life is not a fairy-tale, and only those with wealth and power get happy endings. And, he supposes, that lucky girl picked by the Crowned Prince at the ball, but she’s the rare exception, and she _won’t_ be from this household.

His heart pangs, as he stares into the lathery pool, as he thinks of the dejection etched on both Wendy and Bebe’s faces. The ball is the ultimate opportunity, offered once in a lifetime— _if that_ —and Cartman’s gladly robbing them the chance. Like Kenny, they know better, neither surprised by the answer. Nonetheless, hope invaded their heads, hushed reason and logic, promised them a night to remember. They’ll never forget it, because it’ll be the night they could have gone, could have left, could have escaped. Bebe plays it off with breezy humour, but Kenny hears sorrow quaver her lilting voice. Wendy hides behind her stalwart will, but Kenny sees melancholy flicker in hazel’s transitions. Kenny tells himself his grief is over them, but cannot deny those pesky fantasies, as if one night could change all their fates.

Tonight, the ball is tonight. People will dance, drink, prattle on, then the Crowned Prince will choose his bride. And none of that will matter, because Cartman will still be the Lord of the Manor, with Wendy his cook, Bebe his tailor, and Kenny just a piece of furniture, with nothing of his own.

_M-m-meee-oow!_

Kenny looks up, blinks away the misty glaze. A raggedy brown cat stands near the puddle, Jimmy ambling from the pantry for a short stroll. His harness allows him walk around on two front legs, both supported by sturdy braces, his hind dragging along in a leather bag, protected from injury during travel. Cartman loves mocking how Jimmy crawls across the ground, overlooking his remarkable coordination and harping on his ‘hilarious’ handicaps. Luckily, felines disregard humans’ foul opinions, undaunted by jeers about his fixed eyes or stammering mew. Kenny wishes he could be more like Jimmy.

He leaves the brush on the floor, straightens up as he shifts into a kneel. His neck and shoulders feel taut and cramped, however their ache is marginal, nothing compared to the pain radiating throughout his body with every breath and beat. Rather than acknowledge, than give hope any more power over him, Kenny pretends it isn’t there. He forces a weak smile, though his words leaving in a wisp, “How’s it goin’?”

“ _Fff_ ine, but wuh-what’s wrong with you _Kh_ - _Kh_ -Kenny?” Like the rats, Kenny gives Jimmy a voice, a stutter matching his meow, “Ya look—ya look dow- _ow_ -down, _very much._ ”

He needs to stop thinking he can outsmart his animal friends. He can’t, because he _has_ animal friends because Kenny _imposes_ his emotions _onto_ them, their bonds an elaborate delusion within his psyche. At least _pretending_ makes him feel better, feel like people care; well, a handful of rats and a crippled cat, but they all act enough like people, they ought to count. Kenny shrugs, heaves a sigh, “Same as always.”

“No, it’s not,” Jimmy asserts, thumping his tail. His copper eyes stare into the distance, though his attention rests on Kenny, “Y’know you _cah_ —y’know you _cahhh_ —y’know you can tell me anything, and I’ll help you out the _b_ -best I can.”

Sometimes, repeating thoughts aloud alleviates their burden, their weight lifted by a pair of listening ears, even if they are triangular. Clyde, Craig, and Tweek usually chatter through his rants, but Jimmy holds his sandpaper tongue, listens as Kenny laments his frustrations. It might be little more than projection, but Kenny relishes the few moments of catharsis, before Jimmy shuts his eyes and takes a nap.

“It’s this stupid ball,” Kenny says, bitterness coating his mouth, lips slipping into a frown, “Like, the whole _point_ is that _everyone_ in the kingdom gets to go and meet the prince, right? But ‘cause of one sack of shit, Wendy and Bebe aren’t gonna get their fair shot and that’s _bullshit_.”

“Well, Kenny,” Jimmy takes a few wobbly steps forward, paws skirting the water’s edge, “ _I_ -I can’t change anything, be _cau_ - _ause_ I’m a cat. But y’know what I can do?” He blinks, Kenny raising a brow, “ _Br_ - _bri_ - _igh_ -ighten your day with a _li_ —a _li-li-_ light bit of comedy.”

Kenny likes imagining Jimmy as a master of comedy.

“What do you call someone who thinks _ah_ -animals actually care about his _st-st_ -stupid prob _leh_ —problems?”

Except Kenny _isn’t_ all that funny.

“A _f-f-f-f-f_ -fuckin’ lo- _oo_ - _oo_ -oser.”

But _is_ extremely self-deprecating.

“Wow, what a terrific audience.”

Kenny frowns, snorts a harsh breath out his nose. Those jokes sting a little more coming from Jimmy’s meow, but they all originate in _his_ self-conscious, so he can only himself. Kenny rolls his eyes, reaches out, pets Jimmy’s head. Calloused fingers soothe over the coarse fur, raggedy and thick, requiring a wash. Loud purring erupts, vibrates under his fingertips. No, he can’t be mad at Jimmy, not at all. Kenny scratches under his chin, softens his expression, “We _really_ gotta workshop your routine so’more.”

Jimmy’s ears perk alert, but not at Kenny’s words. He detects something else, his senses keener, sharper. Umber eyes blink wildly, and Jimmy backs up, braces scuffling on the stone. Despite his motor problems, Jimmy is _fast_ , moving quicker than any scurrying rodent. He speeds off without a goodbye, and Kenny finally hears what spooked him: two sets of footsteps, one heavy and one swift, one Cartman and one Butters. Cartman’s bellowing voice reverberates.

_“TWO GENERATIONS, Butters, it took those sneaky rats TWO GENERATIONS to finally drive this kingdom to SHIT.”_

But he isn’t merely acting out, vocalising a short temper.

_“First, they use some backhanded LOOPHOLE to weasel their way into power!”_

No, the ire echoing is _stronger_ , crude and unrefined, raw and brutal.

_“Then they start talking about giving the COMMON PEOPLE a voice!”_

He speaks with pure and unadulterated _rage_.

_“And now they’re getting RID OF RANK all together!”_

The beast crawls from the black pit at his core, emerging from inky depths.

_“And if **WE** don’t STOP THIS, we’re all **SCREWED**!” _

Cartman proves just how _real_ monsters are.

Claps of thunder herald their approach, let in by the crack in the ajar parlour door. Kenny glances down, looks at his brush, his pail, his soap and suds. He can easily keep to his work, snatch up the brush and diligently scrub the marble, wait out the tumultuous storm. That’s safer, shields him from the warpath, from being a causality of wrath. But it doesn’t sit right. No, something _isn’t_ right. Something is wrong. Very, _very_ wrong.

Determined, he rises from the ground. He awkwardly manoeuvres around the puddle, distrusting his innate clumsiness and own two feet, and creeps over to the door. He presses to the wood, peers through the opening, sliver so narrow he can only peek with one eye. Kenny glimpses Cartman on his stomping warpath, his eyes blazing bonfires. Butters closely at his heels, barely keeping pace.

_“Is—HHH, HHH,”_ Exhausted pants interspace his quavering voice, _“Is it rea—HHH—lly that bad?”_

Although spoken in a trembling timbre, Cartman stops, struck by the audacity lacing his words. How dare he imply Cartman _exaggerates!_ Doesn’t he know anything that slightly inconveniences him is a dire emergency? He stands still, a block pillar or stone wall, and Butters walks into him.

“ _EAH_ ,” He stumbles back a step, half-step. Mid-wheeze, Cartman swivels around, his glower stealing the breath from Butters’ lungs, choking him with a stare. Butters’ mouth gapes, grey eyes bulging in their sockets, scared to stillness. Pale and panicked, he sputters, “I-I mean, the decree just says that the _lady’s_ rank doesn’t matter! Not, y’know, that they’re just gonna get _rid_ of it…”

Cartman reminds Kenny of a dragon, one of those scaly scoundrels found in stories he told Karen before bed. He hoards fortune in his keep, reeks of brimstone, and terrorises all he encounters. He looms over Butters, chest puffed, eyes glassy. He can easily roast him alive, crisp him where he stands. But he doesn’t; Cartman restrains himself. Sparing Butters is not an act of kindness, as Cartman views generosity solely as a means to an end. His mercy is tactical, because Butters trusts him completely, obeys him absolutely. Manipulating him is child’s play. In a tone slick as oil, Cartman pitches his case:

_“Don’t you see? This is just the beginning! Think about it! We’ve already got a monarchy with_ tainted _blood! They stole their class and won’t even stick to it! They just want to dilute the lineage even more!”_

Unlike Cartman, who obtained his wealth through fraud and felony, the Broflovski family gained their status through a wholly legal process. Cartman resents them not only for their stature, but also for their legitimacy. None impugn the Crowned Prince’s claim to the throne, because he is the rightful heir. And Cartman isn’t.

_“Next thing you know, some dumb bitch commoner waltzes up to that dibshit ginger, flashes her titties, and BOOM! She’s the next queen ‘cause Prince Kahl’s thinkin’ with his dick! Does_ that _sound fair to the kingdom?”_

Maybe Cartman only reserves mispronunciations for those he truly despises. In that case, both Kenny and the Crowned Prince have Cartman’s deepest disrespect, which is more than Kenny ever thought he’d have in common with royalty. In a way, he feels honoured.

_“And then it’s like who gives a shit who your parents were or how much properteh you own! All our values become WORTHLESS!”_

Cartman treats people like garbage because he’s worth something. He points to things like his manor and his money and his title to prove his superiority. But he doesn’t deserve any of it, he never has. And, if his material wealth no longer holds clout, he goes back to what he was before: a brothel bastard with no heart or soul. After all misdeeds and crimes he’s committed thus far, the Crowned Prince’s marriage can unravel everything he has.

Butters looks down at his shoes, lips pressed in a thin line. A part of him _must_ doubt Cartman’s logic, _must_ know he’s lying, _must_ _disagree_. Cartman actively denies reality when it contradicts his ideals, fabricates facts to justify his wanting whims. Butters cannot believe him, not wholly anyway, yet he can’t defy him, won’t dare speak against him. He choses loyalty, his morals eroding, “Well, when you put it like that… It sure makes a lotta sense…”

“Of course it does,” Cartman said it, so obviously it’s the truth. Kenny rolls his eyes, then watches Cartman place a hand on Butters’ shoulder, “And it’s up to _us_ to make sure that no-good greedy _piece of shit_ doesn’t destroy our way of life.”

Butters looks to his master unblinking, ready for orders. He gulps down his integrity, pipes out, “What’re we supposed to do?”

“Our best option would be killing him, getting him out of the picture completely,” Cartman talks about murder the way most talk about the weather, a thwarted attempt on someone’s life akin to a raincloud infringing on a sunny day.

“Oh, jeez…” Will Butters draw the line at conspiracy? At treason? At _regicide_?

“But we don’t have time to make that work,” Cartman huffs, disappointed. Butters, meanwhile, sighs in relief. Brown eyes squint, nearly closing, Cartman thinking very hard, “The ball’s way too public and they’ll have guards at every damn door. Shit, Kahl’s probably gonna be surrounded by them, slimy fuck.”

“Yeah,” Butters also thinks, albeit not very hard, too unnerved by the possibilities to give them much meaningful thought, “’Nless he’s meetin’ a lady...”

Brown eyes open, glimmer, glint and _shine_. Cartman is only as smart as he is motivated, a moron when apathetic, but a genius when provoked. Most underestimate him, because he gives them ample reason, because he wants them to assume, because he seizes the advantage the moment they laugh him off. He’s a fat son-of-a-whore, but he isn’t always stupid. Sinister brilliance orchestrated House Tenorman’s fall. Did his eyes have this sheen when he devised that plot?

“Exactly,” A toothy smile unfurls, twists Kenny’s gut, “ _Kahl’s_ gonna be surrounded by a bunch of sluts and cunts, right?”

Butters raises a brow, reluctantly nods.

“But,” Cartman snaps his fingers, “If _we_ show up with a _slut_ and a _cunt_ , we can get close to him.”

Kenny breathes in sharply, the air cutting his lungs, slicing his throat. No, not _them_. Not—

“Ya mean Wendy and Bebe?” Butters asks, lost and confused, “They’re dumb bitch commoners.”

His veins both sear and ice over, burn and freeze simultaneously.

“ ** _My_** dumb bitch commoners,” Cartman asserts, scoffs at Butters’ ignorance, “And all we have to do is make sure Kahl picks one of them to marry at the end of the night.”

No. Not like this. The ball should be their freedom, their _escape_. They _deserve_ that, not _this_.

Butters absently clunks his knuckles together, “How does that help save the kingdom?”

It doesn’t. Because, in Cartman’s stories, only _he_ gets to live _happily-ever-after_. Everyone else starves and dies.

“Because the future queen will come from _my_ house!” He shoves Butters back, sends him bumbling to the carpet. Butters yelps, lands on his ass, as a dreamy glaze coats Cartman’s eyes, admiring his ingenious scheme, “To thank me, I’ll get a royal courtship for sure. And from there all I have to do is become Senior Counsel…”

He doesn’t say it, but Kenny knows the rest. Cartman achieves Senior Counsel, then wills some sort of accident, a tragedy masking his coup. Then, through the same law that began the Broflovski reign, Cartman would become king. And the kingdom would be doomed.

From the ground, Butters groans, rubbing his lower back. He looks up at Cartman, frowning, but doesn’t complain. Rather than stand up for himself, he asks, “Won’t Wendy ‘n Bebe be awful sore with you if you, y’know, use ‘em like that?”

Cartman’s eyes flicker down, casts a shadow glare over him. He grinds his teeth, insulted by the notion of taking others into account, of treating people as more than his playthings or pawns. Austerity booms in his voice, “I _own_ them, Butters, _and_ their parents. They’ll either go to the ball and play along or I’ll wake them up the next morning to a heaping helping of Stevens-Testaburger stew, _farm-to-table_.”

He’ll do it, too, without hesitation. Kenny knows that. Wendy and Bebe know that. No matter how much either of them hate Cartman, they won’t jeopardise their parents’ lives. They won’t force their families to pay for their defiance, so they’ll concede, be coerced. Like the smart girls they are, they’ll try sabotaging the plan from within; but, like the smart girls they are, they’ll tread cautiously along the fine line drawn. Everything gets messier with hostages involved.

“O-oh jeez…” Butters suppresses a shudder. Grey flits to a random spot on the carpet, contemplating the ethical dilemma, then the price of insubordination. He bites his lips, caves to the fear, and looks back at Cartman, “Uh, what about Kenny?”

At his name, Kenny holds his breath.

Cartman quirks a brow, Kenny clearly absent from his machinations, “What about ‘im?”

“Isn’t he gonna cause trouble?”

Kenny _can_ cause trouble. Cartman has no leverage over him. Kenny has no family shackled to his land. He has no potential of leaving servitude. He has no fear of death. Cartman can do nothing to stop Kenny, so Kenny will cause trouble. Kenny can ruin _everything_.

Cartman puts a hand on his chin, mulls it over. Creases wrinkle his forehead, realising that, while Kenny is poor and stupid, he poses a potential problem. He can’t control Kenny, and that bothers him, _infuriates_ him. His jaw clenches, a harsh exhale sneaking between gritted teeth, “ _Kinny’s_ a fucking retard. If he comes with us, he might make me look bad, but if he stays here unsupervised, he’ll probably burn down the manor trying to light the fireplace. It’s safer to take him, but he’ll need to stay on a very _short_ leash.”

This isn’t his imagination. Kenny’s going to the ball. Except he feels nothing, nothing but dread, dread, overwhelming _dread_.

“Now, go tell cook-cunt and sew-slut the news,” Cartman commands, a forceful hand pointing down the corridor, “Make sure they both go to the second floor’s third storeroom where all Lady Tenorman’s shit dresses are and pick something decent for tonight.”

“Right away, my Lord!” Butters bobs his head, peeling himself off the floor in a hasty scramble. He bows, whole body bent in obeisance. When he straightens up, he starts to turn, then pauses, “What’ll you do?”

“Taking a _bath_ , shithead,” Cartman scoffs, “ _I_ have to look my best. ‘Sides, I’ll need _Kinny_ to draw it, so I can tell him it’s his lucky fucking day.”

Kenny stifles a gag. How much _luckier_ can he get?

One more bow, and Butters takes his leave, hurrying off the way he came. He’ll tell the girls their dreams will come true, and what will happen if they don’t cooperate. Cartman goes the opposite direction, searching for Kenny with no grasp of where he is. With so many insipid chores, he might not find him for a while, which will, naturally, be Kenny’s fault.

He steps back from the door, softly pulls it shut. If Cartman finds him, he at least won’t figure out Kenny eavesdropped, heard his whole demented scheme start to finish. For as long as possible, he must remain unaware, so Kenny can come up with a plan of his own. Except, what is he supposed to do?

Sure, the odds of the Crowned Prince picking Wendy or Bebe are slim, especially with every other maiden in the realm warring for his hand. Even under duress, they’ll resist conforming to his will, though they’ll rely on subtlety more than anything. And, although Kenny has utmost confidence in Wendy and Bebe, Cartman has an uncanny knack for getting his way at the worst possible moments, and Kenny cannot think of a worse one than this.

His best chance is warning the Crowned Prince, somehow getting close to him and exposing Cartman’s treachery. First, he’ll need to slip away from Cartman, which won’t be easy. However, should he slip away, the Crowned Prince is seeing every single girl in the kingdom, so he won’t have time for Kenny. Hell, Kenny probably won’t be allowed to go near him, let alone talk to him. But if he can’t do that, then what? He has absolutely no clue.

_M-meee-ew!_ He glances down at Jimmy, emerged from his hiding place, sitting beside his feet. Pink tongue licks bumpy nose, Jimmy blinking at him once, twice, “Y-you’re in some d _eee_ —eep shit, Ken.”

He snorts, shakes his head, “We all are, Jim, we all are.”

Unless he can stop Cartman, everyone is at risk. Wendy is, Bebe is, the Crowned Prince is, the kingdom is. Kenny can’t leave matters to fate, won’t underestimate Cartman like everyone else. He’ll stop Cartman before he can worm his way into the court, spread his disease, curdle the country with corruption and hate. Lord Eric Cartman embodies everything wrong with the world, and Kenny will not let the villain win in the end.

It’d help, Kenny thinks, if he knew how to do that. That would really, _really_ help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this could have been better covered in a Disney villain solo, but alas. Either way, Cartman's teeth and ambitions are barred, and Kenny's gotta get prepared for the ball! Also Jimmy. Because Jimmy deserves all the love and attention. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter, and will continue to enjoy it.


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